I’m the man who will draw blood as her revenge. That is who she needs me as, and thinking it could be anything else is selfish.
That was the first time I killed for her. And that’s where the guilt began. Because that was the night something crossed inside me. Not desire. Not then. Something worse. Something deeper.
She stopped being just Lev’s daughter. Stopped being an assignment. She became mine to protect in a way that no longer fit inside the rules I’d lived by.
I told myself it was instinct. Trauma bonding. The aftermath of violence. That it would fade.
It didn’t.
From that night on, every threat felt personal, every shadow too close. Every smile she gave the world felt like something I had to guard.
And I hated myself for it. Because I knew what that line meant.
She could never be mine. Not in any way that mattered. Not without destroying everything I stood for. Not without betraying the man who saved my life. Not without turning protection into something selfish.
So I buried it.
I sharpened it into vigilance. Turned obsession into discipline. Kept my distance even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
Because the pain I felt was nothing in comparison to what she had been through.
Seeing her crying in her car while having a panic attack, I couldn’t hold her through. Getting wasted, having one-night stands with losers to see if she could feel something. To prove to herself that night didn’t break her.
But it did. The life behind her eyes died that night, and I haven’t seen it return yet. Not once since has she danced.
All I can do is make small adjustments for her in the background. Quiet fixes she’ll never know about. Like telling Lev to buy her the art gallery. Like moving money and pulling strings, making sure doors open when she needs them to.
I belong in the shadows. She belongs in the light. And knowing that is the price I pay for the night I saved her.
Yet here I am, installing security cameras on her house. Drinking coffee she made for me. Thinking about the smile she gave me, as if it meant something. Like it was meant for me.
And the tiny pink shorts she wore earlier. Barely covering her ass. Seared into my memory whether I want it there or not.
Fuck, I bite down on my fist just thinking about how she responded to my comment about her clothes. The way her eyes glimmered at that tiny bit of protectiveness I showed her.
I didn’t miss the way she squeezed her thighs together, or how hard she blushed around me.
By the time I finish mounting the cameras outside, I knock on her front door again. My pulse kicks hard as I wait. She opens it slowly.
This time, she’s changed. Blue jeans. A white shirt. Hair loose in bouncy curls. Those glossy lips are still doing damage I have no business noticing.
Her eyes are eating me up like I’m her next meal. “Are you done out here?” She asks.
I nod, and she steps aside, letting me back in.
She has no idea who she’s inviting into her home. A man who would rather die than hurt her. A man who has already killed for her.
Still a man. Still human. Still aware of her.
I drop my bag on the floor and pull out the final camera. Smaller. Discreet. Meant for the hallway.
Before I start, I turn to look at her. When I do, her cheeks flush, and it hits me right in the chest. “What made you need all these cameras, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I need to know.
“I had a showing at my gallery a few nights ago, and there was a guy there who creeped me out. Reminded me of the men that my father works with.” Her lips press together. Her eyes widen. She realizes too late that she’s said too much.
Good girl.
